A Year and A Week
by tallulah daze
Summary: Elizabeth/Norrington vignette. James and Elizabeth experience a loss, and the void between them is brought to light by their confusion over how they should feel.


The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven, its chimes ringing throughout the silent house.  
James looked up from the papers he was attempting to read over. She had been in there for hours now, and although she hadn't wanted his company earlier… she could change her mind.  
It would be understandable for her mood to be erratic, and with her in that state… he simply couldn't keep his mind on the bundle of voyage proposition papers.  
His thoughts kept straying to how she was right at that moment, only up the stairs from him, and he really couldn't do anything to help it, no matter how much he wanted to.  
It was times like these that the distance between them became so poignant and painful to him.

Normally, and increasingly frequently, he almost forgot about the circumstances of their union. It was almost as if she had accepted his primary proposal, and Turner had never happened. She seemed comfortable with him, his heart quickened more often upon realizing that he had successfully engaged her in conversation; that he had been responsible for that pretty peal of laughter falling from her mouth. Although she was still shy about the act and he terrified of her fragility when he found her slip of a frame in his arms, they made love more, and even if they found it frightening, unsatisfying, it drew them together.  
But, if their marriage was strengthening the way he had been under the impression that it was… she would have her head buried against his chest right now, seeking consolation from the husband who was, believe it or not, also distressed by this.  
It felt as though this blow had brought them a few steps backwards in their marriage.  
She had claimed straight away that she was fine. It was so soon that it didn't really count… it wasn't really real, she hadn't even known, and of course she was upset by the failed potential, but… she was fine. Just the physical effects, she was sore and drained, could she be left for a while to sleep?  
But her words had been too hasty- as though she had been running them over in her mind whilst with the doctor, and was mindlessly reciting them to put his mind at ease.  
What she took for granted was quite how closely he watched her. Indeed, he could not take his eyes off the beguiling beauty that had graced his home for… it was exactly one year and one week now.  
He could note her little mannerisms upon request. The way she tapped her foot loudly upon the wooden floor when she was on her own in a room, creating some sound in the silent house. The way she slept with the window open, so nightmares could escape, she had explained one night. How, after finishing a cup of coffee, she would overturn the cup onto the saucer and attempt to read her future (James had once joined, and both had playfully speculated upon the distorted shapes made by the grounds as though they were children seeking shapes in clouds; "It resembles a cow somewhat… see?… perhaps that suggests…" "that we shall be having roast beef for dinner?").  
He had learnt enough about the suppressed character sharing his bed to tell when she was lying. Today had felt like an insult, like a slap in the face when she had stumbled off excuses and asked to be left alone, to wince in pain and fall in and out of a nightmarish sleep.

Before the final chime, he had strode into their bedroom, not even knocking.  
For the past five hours, he had been flitting between worry, grief and anger. And right now… yes, he was cross at her. He didn't blame it on her. She hadn't known, and she had hardly have been able to prevent the fall anyhow.  
But the fact that she could face him and just _reject _his comfort, lay there and lie about how she felt…  
That was inexcusable. He was confused too, he was unsure weather it merited grief, and he was concerned for his wife's wellbeing. It had been him who had walked in to view his wife collapsed upon the ground, that duck egg blue dress he had brought her home from a voyage soaked in a putrid dark, almost black blood.  
They needed to talk- she owed him that much, he had let the debts she owed him slide for almost a year, content in their amiable marriage, in the potential she was offering him. But there would no longer be such a potential if she lied to him, if she bottled up her grief and nurtured his resentment as a result.

But when he pushed into the dark room, lit only by the moon and a few candles, threatening to be blown out by the breeze from the wide open window, his mood swung back to compassion.  
She was only a child herself. She was tiny and fragile and she wasn't equipped enough to deal with such hardship. She hadn't experienced enough pain in life, he didn't expect she knew how to cope or react.  
And he could see no lies in her eyes when she looked up from where she had collapsed into a shaky bundle against the wall, hugging a pillow to her stomach and shivering in the chill night air which had filled the room.  
"I'll light a fire," he breathed, resorting to material comforts. He imagined it would be easier to convince her to share her sorrow if he burnt away the smell of death, if she felt comforted.  
And, to his genuine surprise, she nodded and didn't say a word objecting to his presence.  
She didn't say a word, but as he bent to pick up firewood from a wicker basket beside the mantelpiece, he heard movement and turned to feel his heart clenching, sinking and wailing in a single agonizing pulse upon seeing her try, and fail, to get to her feet, instead crumpling back onto the floor and burying her head against her bent knees, shoulders shuddering in silent sobs.  
He had never witnessed her in such a moment of weakness, and it was disturbing.  
She had always been a slight slip of a woman, she had always seemed so young and inexperienced to the man who had seen more than a decade of pain and trails before she had even entered the world. Yet she had also seemed so strong, so self dependant and world wary and intelligent.  
But here she sat, deflated and weak, bluish tinged moonlights playing over her tearstained, pale face as she sat back, tried to get a hold of herself. He watched her shut her eyes and gulp and lean her head back against the wall, all silly little flaccid attempts to stop the sobs.  
But he didn't want her to stop. He didn't want her to retreat back into the world of bottled thoughts which had so concerned him earlier. He gave up attempting to create light and comfort- she was there, she was at the other side of the room, he didn't have to be anywhere than that solemn little corner, where she battled with pain and guilt and 'what if's.

In a moment, he had closed the distance between them; he was awkwardly holding her in his arms, bodies falling together as they clung to each other.  
She sobbed, but he didn't feel the need to. He worried for her, not it. 'It' was just a confusion- neither of them understood how they were supposed to feel, whilst Elizabeth… she genuinely needed him. She allowed herself to sob luxuriously against his shirt, hands gripping to his back, clinging to him as she squirmed against his body- her face burying itself against his shoulder, his hair, his neck.

**This ends kind of randomly. I'll probably change the ending soon, add on a little summary paragraph or something, but I've sat for the past hour writing and rewriting conclusions, and my mind is simply a jumble. **

**I don't know where this even came from, I just got bored, was meant to be revising, and decided to write instead. So there we go.**

**I'd be so entirely, genuinely appreciative if you took the time to review this. Thanks **


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